How to make a tasty Red Thaï Curry

Today, we have planned a cinema afternoon to watch Asian films. For the occasion, I cooked a Thai Curry for my friends and also to celebrate my move to Priya.

The recipe is simple and very tasty, I will gladly share it with you.

Ingredients:

  • 1 to 2 tablespoons of red curry paste (be careful it can be hot)
  • 2 minced garlic cloves
  • 2 teaspoons finely chopped ginger
  • 1 tablespoon lemongrass paste in a tube or finely chopped lemongrass.
  • 3 or 4 chicken thighs (boneless and skinless), cut into bite-sized cubes (chicken breasts are fine too)
  • 250ml chicken stock
  • 400 ml of coconut milk (or 250 of 12% fat fresh cream)
  • 150g diced squash (not liking squash, I substituted 300g potato and 100g carrot)
  • 120g green beans
  • 12 leaves of Thai basilicas
  • 2 lime leaves
  • 2 teaspoons of fish sauce (nuoc man for example)

Achievement:

  1. Heat oil in a large skillet. Add the curry paste, garlic, ginger and lemongrass. Let simmer for 2 minutes
  2. Add the broth, stir and reduce by half. Add coconut milk, lime leaves, fish sauce and chicken. (Add potatoes and carrots if you don’t want squash)
  3. Cook for 20 minutes over medium heat.
  4. Add the squash and the beans and we are off again for 10min of cooking.
  5. Add a handful of Thai basil leaf and serve with garnish

Garnish (recommended): slices of fresh red pepper, cilantro leaves and jasmine rice for a traditional version.
My recommendation: It’s a little less traditional but personally I really like to accompany this dish with couscous semolina.

Some News

I come back to you to give you new information.

I found a place to stay. My friend Priya has offered to host me and my cats in a roommate!

I met Priya by chance on a forum about deafness at the very beginning of the COVID lockdowns. She is a psychologist and was looking for information for one of her patients and we became friends before we could meet. Since then, I have often worked with her as part of my job or to serve as her interpreter. We developed a certain complicity and I, who didn’t want to rely too much on Grandmother’s shoulders, am delighted with her proposal!

Poor thing, she doesn’t know what it’s like to live with a deaf person. I hope she won’t regret it or at least that she will be able to put up with me!

Det betyder meget for mig, mange tak Priya!

Today I no longer have a home.

If I write this article, it is to warn you that there may be a little disruption in my next posts. Indeed there was a fire at my house last night and I find myself in the hospital.

Don’t worry too much about me, I’m fine but not having been able to hear the fire alarm. I had smoke detectors which flash light in addition to the alarm but being asleep, I was not warned and I inhaled a little too much smoke before being able to evacuate so I was kept under observation for 24 hours.

My house was not completely destroyed by the flames but it will not be habitable for a while.

In short, more fear than harm. I just lost memories and some stuff but it’s just material.
I’m going to live with my Grandmother until things get better.

I’ll post when there’s something new.

Take care of yourself and your loved ones and see you soon!

A simple and original accompaniment for grilled meats: Zucchini, Corn and Parmesan.

This afternoon, I eat with dad and my grandparents. In the program I prepared a roast chicken and to accompany it instead of the traditional mashed potato I planned this little side dish.

Zucchini, Corn and Parmesan

Ingredients:

  • 2 tbsp. olive oil
  • 2 garlic cloves, minced
  • 4 zucchini, diced
  • 1 cup corn kernels, canned or roasted
  • 1/4 tsp. dried basil
  • 1/4 tsp. dried oregano
  • 1/4 tsp. dried thyme
  • Salt and pepper
  • juice of 1 lime
  • 2 tablespoons fresh coriander leaves
  • 2 tablespoons Parmesan cheese, or more

Preparation:

  1. Heat the olive oil in a large skillet over medium-high heat. Add the garlic and cook, stirring frequently, for about 1 minute.
  2. Add zucchini, corn, basil, oregano and thyme. Cook, stirring occasionally, until zucchini is tender and cooked through, about 3-4 minutes;
  3. seasoned with salt and pepper, to taste. Stir in lime juice and cilantro. Serve immediately, sprinkled with Parmesan.

Take care of yourself and your loved ones and see you soon!

Ethereal Stories: The last rays of the day

Today I just wanna wrote an horror story for changing a bit of what I wrote generaly. (There is no Blood and no Gore if you are triggered by this). It take me more time that I though but I hope it will please you.

The last rays of the day

It all started with an explosion. A flash of light, and a rain of brown dust. They told us not to panic. That these particles were harmless, and that we could go on living as if this extraordinary event had never happened. They were wrong.

I bend down to pick a new wildflower and bring it to my face before adding it to my bouquet. Mom will love it.

At first, no one really noticed the changes. People, stuck in their routine, blinded by their problems, had better things to do than be moved by the amazing growth of shrubs or the flowering of dying plants. Days gradually turned into weeks, and everyone forgot about the explosion, the light and the specks of dust. At least, until the animals start to change too.

The tall grass scratches my calves. The wind whips through my hair and softens the sunburn on my weathered skin. But apart from this breeze which stirs the leaves and shakes the tops of the trees, all is calm. Accustomed to this supernatural silence, I barely remember that there was a time when I liked to listen to the chirping of birds, the barking of dogs, and even the hum of traffic on the main road. Now, only the sound of my breathing remains, and the creak of my footsteps sinking into the thick carpet of wild grass.

Neighborhood animals have become aggressive. Their owners no longer dared approach them. Then the birds started falling from the sky. One second they were flying gracefully through the clouds, the next they were lying crushed on the asphalt. Even my cat was different. He ran away from our company to hide in dark places, refused to eat and sometimes disappeared for days on end.

I plod along on the way home. I have crossed these fields and wandered in this forest so many times over the past few months that I could walk there with my eyes closed. My passages ended up forming a path in the thick vegetation, even if this tends to regain its rights now that my walks are becoming rarer. I find it increasingly difficult to walk, but I wanted to make this bouquet and choose the most beautiful flowers. Although not much else has mattered lately, I won’t give up trying to smile back at Mom. She suffered so much.

My cat is dead. We buried him under the chestnut tree, mum, Theo and me. At that time, Dad continued to go to work every morning, but we all knew that something was wrong. The gardens were fallow. The roots of the trees created wide cracks in the road, as if trying to come up to the surface. A sweetish scent of flowers and humus lingered in the air. The dogs were no longer barking. Scientists could not explain these phenomena. They began to invent outlandish theories that only fueled general terror. One after another, people packed their bags and left, leaving empty houses behind. We decided to stay. Here or elsewhere there was the same anxiety-provoking climate, and Theo was ill.

I have to stop to catch my breath, sitting on a stump in the undergrowth. The pain in my muscles is unbearable. My chest is burning. My tense fingers tremble around my bouquet. More than a few minutes. Only a few hundred yards, and I’ll be home. So I grit my teeth, swallow back the sticky tears that have started rolling down my cheeks, and push myself forward. One step after another.

The neighborhood has taken on the appearance of a ghost town. People hunkered down and locked themselves in their homes, with whatever food supplies they could find. An armed militia has taken to patrolling the streets, on the tree-torn pavement that once lined the road. Freed from their concrete cage, they blossomed to dizzying heights while humans walled themselves in alive, holed up in their basements. I heard gunshots. Dad stopped pretending that the world was round. Theo stopped leaving his bed.

Long cracks crisscross the asphalt. Scraps of cars lie along the rutted sidewalks, some half-swallowed by ravenous nature. In the abandoned alleys, I come across trunks with almost humanoid shapes. Their branches lean over me to greet me, but I can’t stop. Not yet.

They cut the electricity. At night, we gathered in Theo’s room, Mom hugged me while Dad whispered that everything was fine, the flame of our last candles casting shadows on his bloodless face. Nothing had been going well for a long time. Outside, a war has finally broken out. People were hungry. Those who could still move emerged from their burrows, armed with clubs, knives or guns, and began to fight. We had nothing left to eat and mom had caught the disease that was eating away at my brother, so dad resolved to join in the chaos. It was the last time I saw him, through the planks that barred the windows, his slender figure moving away in the darkness.

I absently scratch the scabs that cover my forearm. A thick, syrupy liquid flows from my wounds. My bones crack like twigs as soon as I begin to move. I’m close to home now. I’m going to find mum and Théo soon. They are waiting for me in the garden, as always. As I drag myself to the rusty gate, I repeat these words to myself over and over again, until they form a bulwark against the pain that blocks my breathing.

The streets have regained their calm. An abnormal, implacable calm, cut only by the whistling of the wind. The plants have invaded everything, and the bodies have disappeared, replaced by young shoots. The seasons have passed without my ever encountering any living beings. It didn’t matter, as long as I didn’t lose Theo and Mom. I learned how to manage to find food, and after a while I realized that my body no longer needed to eat to regain its strength. All I had to do was lie in the sun, my bare skin pressed against the earth, to be satiated. I lost track of time.

I collapse at the feet of Mom’s motionless silhouette. When I find the courage to stand up, the sun is already low on the horizon. I brush against his rough hand, slip my bouquet between his frozen fingers, sketch a smile that makes my cheeks crack. Then I sit down, my back glued to his statue-like legs, calm. Already, I feel the climbing weeds clinging to my body and the pain fading. I am ready to join them. Mom, Theo and all the others. I close my eyes, and the last tear coagulates before reaching my chin, a drop of amber with golden reflections under the last rays of the day.

Ethereal Stories: Visite of an earthling garden

On this mild spring day, Jacques was spending the afternoon in his garden digging. Gently, he prepared the ground for the planting of potatoes while leaving the poultry cackling at his feet. Without the slightest caution, the hens dived under the spikes of his tool to swallow the visible earthworms and fought for the biggest ones. Sometimes the gardener had a few seconds of respite, when one of his poultry decided to run away with a particularly appetizing worm. The other beasts, bad ones, then set off in pursuit to steal from its beak without worrying about the insects left behind. At the other end of the garden, wasps were already circling around the first raspberries and trying to leave as little as possible for humans. And as Jacques was returning home to enjoy a well-deserved lemonade, a tiny ship crashed among the magnolias, petunias and hydrangeas.

The craft bounced from leaf to leaf and shook its occupant unceremoniously. Fortunately, the thick grass was enough to soften the fall to allow the machine to land without significant damage. A few minutes later, an alien set foot on Earth for the first time. A full suit surrounded him and completely hid his body while revealing a humanoid figure. From the top of his two centimeters, Qzar rushed to conquer this new land. Equipped with a recorder in his helmet, the alien described his environment in detail by trying to compare each thing to an already known object. The yellow, round flowers were therefore mussratts, the small red speckled with black dots were ivirs, and the green tufts were grsazs. A few surprises still awaited the newcomer. The flower petals were inedible, the earth had a strange brown color instead of the usual yellow, and strange eight-legged creatures wanted to eat it.

The first time Qzar encountered such a creature, he simply noticed the presence of shlarks on the planet and continued on his way without paying any more attention. Although the color was, of course, slightly different and the beast a little bigger, there was no doubt that he had come across a peaceful creature. He was even thinking of the shareholders who were delighted to see a new breed of the most popular pet in the entire Znays system appear. This discovery risked bringing in a small fortune, except for him, a miserable explorer paid for with a slingshot. Could he at least hope to give his name to this discovery?

After a quick turn, a walk of well five meters, he decided to return to the ship to explore a more distant area. However, on his return, his gaze was caught by a strange wire sculpture hanging at the bottom of a hedge. The latter, quite fine, represented a sort of slightly imperfect circle. Pure white, Qzar remained a few seconds admiring this astonishing spectacle. Was it a work of art? Without a doubt. An intelligent species must therefore already be living on this planet. The alien decided to take the time to explore the surroundings to try to find the creator of this incredible work and thus take the first step with the locals. Unfortunately, instead of encountering any living beings, Qzar only found dead insects and works of art. Many sculptures linked leaves and tall grass to create different shapes. Circle, square, oval, triangle and rhombus jostled and mixed to give ever more unique works. This little patch of land no doubt served as an artist’s studio, but the remains of corpses sometimes even stuck in the white sculptures seemed to indicate that the place had been deserted for a long time. Qzar heaved a small sigh of discouragement, but continued to search the work area all the same. He even inspected the tips of the legs and the remains of the wings to verify that they were indeed bodies. Certain that the studio was deserted, Qzar allowed himself to inspect the sculptures themselves and couldn’t resist touching them. Gently, very cautiously, he grabbed a thread and, startled by the sticky contact, he tried to pull his hand back immediately. Without success. The alien then understood the deception and forced more and more on his arm. What creature could be cunning enough to lure innocent people with such beautiful traps?

Quickly, a new shlark arrived near the small alien. The latter ignored him and continued to tug on the wire in an attempt to pull it out. He was, however, forced to pay attention to this eight-legged beast when it bit him on the shoulder. Surprised, he hit her with the back of his hand without even thinking about it and the creature, furious, threw itself on him without waiting any longer. Its mandibles clacked close to Qzar’s face and the image of the peaceful shlarks immediately flew away. In this struggle, the beast broke many sculptures and freed the alien who, without worrying about the damage, fled as quickly as possible to join his ship.

And the earth shook. The leaves stirred, the flies flew away, the ants fled, and Qzar kept running. Seeing his ship, he couldn’t help but smile, but a huge rubbery green thing crushed his precious vehicle in one fell swoop. Stopping dead, the alien contemplated the few remains of the ship without believing it. More slowly, he moved forward to get a better look. The front door, under pressure, had been kicked out to smash against a salad and a few shards of unbreakable glass lay strewn across the floor. Unable to leave this planet and even unable to warn his colleagues, Qzar simply admired the rubble without paying attention to the huge feathered creature near him.

Was it an insect, a worm, a seed, leftover dough or even an eggshell? The hen was unable to tell so, in doubt, she swallowed it.

Small reflection: My problem with the “Woke culture”

There are articles that are more complicated to write than others and this one is one of them. However, it is a subject that I really want to talk to you about.

Sometimes I have thoughts on topics and these are topics that I find very interesting, exciting and about which I want to share my thoughts with you. Even if sometimes the subject is complicated, which gives me apprehension but it in no way affects my desire to share this with you.

This article talks about a rather sensitive subject on the internet, it is the subject of “Woke culture”

Woke culture, what is it?

The term “Woke” in English means “awakened” so awake to what? Awakened in fact to the social inequalities that constitute our world:

  • Race Inequalities;
  • gender inequalities;
  • Sexual Orientation Inequalities;
  • Etc…

And the term “Woke”, it makes sense because I don’t know if you have already experienced it, but when we realize a systemic inequality (the patriarchal system for example), when we make the effort to realize this, here I am talking above all about certain men because generally, women have a little less need to make the effort than them, when we realize this, we realize that it is omnipresent. It’s in all our relationships, it’s in everything we see, everything we consume, everything we look at, etc…

It’s a bit like the red pill in Matrix.

You take the blue pill, the story ends, you wake up in your bed and believe whatever you want to believe. You take the red pill, you stay in wonderland, and I show you how deep the rabbit hole goes.

In Matrix Morpheus offers Neo two pills :

  • A blue one that represents the reality he has always known that will remain his reality
  • A red that represents the truth.

But by taking the red pill there is no going back. Well, the Woke culture is a bit like that. Hence a phrase that comes up often: “Check your privileges”

Be aware of your privileges because there are other individuals who do not have them and therefore you are not subject to the same inequalities.

Exemple:

A white, straight, cisgender man (meaning his felt gender is the same as he was assigned at birth) and well by that logic, he’s advantaged by what he’s wrong with. experience systemic racism, systemic sexism, homophobia or transphobia.

So there are a lot of white, straight, cisgender men who feel a little bit attacked when we say that. This is something I see daily on social media. And say:

“Hey wait, just because I’m a white, straight, cisgender male doesn’t mean I’m living my best life and everything is fine. »

So of course! That’s not the point, but, a white, straight, cisgender man can have a shitty life, but it won’t be the fault of the system that dwells on his skin color, on his gender or his sexual orientation.

Recently politicians wanted to talk about it. They fear “Wokism”. That’s a pretty pejorative way of talking about “Woke Culture” and given what I just said one might well wonder what exactly they fear.

In fact what they fear is rather and mainly the “Cancel culture”. It’s likened to “Woke culture”. Sometimes when I read articles or journalists talk about it, often they overlap.

La « Cancel culture » vous en avez surement déjà entendu parler. C’est le fait de « Cancel », d’annuler ou plutôt ici de Boycotter une personne ou une œuvre parce qu’il ou elle a fait quelque chose que l’on juge inacceptable.

As explained in the Contrapoint video:

Someone is suspected of doing something wrong => It becomes: Someone did something wrong.

Presumption of guilt when there is no evidence.

Someone did something wrong => It becomes: This person is a bad person.

Abstraction and what Contrapoint calls “essentialism”

The action of the person becomes his very essence.

In a society where justice is based on the presumption of innocence, it hinders this “Cancel culture”, but we can also understand that people who have difficulty finding spaces for expression, face one of the only things that they can do:

Boycott or incite to boycott.

Besides, when it’s things or people who are “cancel”, often it doesn’t go to court or if it goes to court, justice has shown itself in a certain way to be disappointing and when I speak of justice, I am also speaking of popular justice.

Exemple:

At the time I started writing this article there was a Facebook post about an actor who is taken into custody following a rape complaint and seeing the comments under the post, it totally echoes what I just said about “Cancel culture”:

Personally given his popularity, he doesn’t have the profile of a rapist, I find it hard to believe

Strangely when you are known it often happens

Another girl who wants to be known

Ladies, ladies, you have to stop, you can also earn money by working. I know it’s time to accuse known men

Yes it sucks, and when it comes to the fact that it’s systemic, the comments that I chose you were posted by both men and women.

Well you know what? You might think that’s my problem with the “Woke Culture”, but no, it’s not even that! (Well not only)

No, what I want to talk about is:

The Place of Suffering in Woke Culture.

As we have seen, the “woke culture”, in its very ideology, there is the desire to correct inequalities and give strength to minorities. In this “culture”, having the status of “victim”, victim of inequalities, victim of injustices, victim of oppressions of the system, means that you will be protected. We will give you the floor, we will fight for you. This protection is the very principle of the “Woke culture”.

One of the manifestations of all this is the “Trigger warning”. In front of certain posts or tweets, there is “TW” followed by a word:

  • TW blood
  • TW aggression
  • TW rape

The principle is to warn people with traumas related to these themes from the start of the job or to allow them to use “blockers”. (A small program that hides for themselves messages containing certain words including “Trigger warning”.)

There is a real link between being a victim and the fact of suffering because suffering legitimizes the status of victim and the more you are a victim, the more, somewhere, you are legitimate in your fight.

Typically, anything I say there, woke-up, I’m not the most legitimate person to talk about, because I may be a deaf woman, but I’m perceived as hetero cisgender and white.

If one day I want to talk about racism or transphobia then according to this same logic I am illegitimate to talk about it because I am not a victim of it.

In this logic the more I suffer and the more I have my place in this “culture” there and we can even go further, the more I suffer and the more I am right or I am given reason. That’s why in “Woke Culture”, if you don’t care about the suffering a subject brings, your opinion doesn’t matter. There are only the people concerned that we want to hear.
The advantage is that it leaves space for people who have not been heard from for too long and who can do so here in a secure way, that is to say spaces where they feel good and safe.

It is important to listen to the victims, because the system does not do it enough, but the thing is that sometimes a victim or a person who is part of a minority, they can be wrong, it happens. The main concern is that as we do not want to listen to others, we find ourselves in hyper-segmented mini-societies.

We are more at the stage where:

This person gives his opinion and we don’t care.

but at the stage where:

You talk, it offends me.

As I am offended, I am right so my suffering is instrumentalized by me or by a group and therefore the suffering becomes a weapon.

Why is it a problem?

This gives importance to suffering. We focus on it, we almost praise it and suddenly, instead of becoming the engine of change, sometimes it becomes the locomotive of unhappiness.

I am not saying no at the individual level because indeed it is up to everyone to manage their suffering as they see fit and I do not have to comment on that. I say NO on a societal scale, on a cultural scale.

If we absorb a culture that makes the more we suffer, the more we are right, we expose ourselves to abuses of victimization that harm the causes for which these same people are fighting. The problem of inequalities and oppression is that they become systemic and it is therefore the whole system that must look into it to find solutions.

I’m not sure you get there when the system is thrown out of the discussion and suffering is a key. Typically the fact that me on my own blog, I’m hesitant to talk about it because I wonder if I’m legit enough to do it, I think that’s something the fight has to move past.

After that it is highly possible that what we are experiencing right now is just a stadium. A necessary step. Because having the recognition of the status of victim by society is an important step and very surely necessary to initiate a change and define oneself differently.

I don’t really have any solutions to offer, it’s just an element that bothers me in the “Woke culture” because I feel like it’s a little bit toxic logic that can harm the general cause . Afterwards, it is not necessarily a state or a stage in which she locks herself up, but perhaps a stage in the system locks her up, precisely by not leaving enough room for the victims and therefore using suffering as a weapon is their way of reacting to it.

Oroshka

This week I offer you a recipe for cold soup from Eastern Europe: Okroshka with beer
For me it’s more a wet salad but let’s not offend our eastern European friends. In the end it remains good and fresh, perfect in this moment of good weather.

Ingredients for 4 persons :

  • 4 red radishes;
  • 1 fresh cucumber;
  • 3-4 stalks of green onions;
  • 2-3 slices of raw ham;
  • 2-3 boiled eggs;
  • 2-3 potatoes;
  • 1l dark or white beer (or 1l of water and a teaspoon of vinegar);
  • 2 tablespoons of dill;
  • salt pepper
  • sour cream or mayonnaise (optional).
  1. Cut the radishes into rounds;
  2. Dice all other ingredients;
  3. Pour in the beer, dill, salt and pepper;
  4. You can finish with mayonnaise or sour cream. (if you don’t have yogurt and a little lemon juice).

Have a nice day guys and take care of yourselves!

Tandoori Chicken

Hello dear readers, I’m back!

I needed a little time for my family and for myself but I’m coming back to you to take care of this blog which despite everything I was starting to miss.
For my return I offer you something to prepare a good little meal for the beautiful days to come.

On the menu :

• Tandoori Chicken
• Greek Salad
• Turmeric rice (in the absence of saffron)

The real tandoori chicken is made in a Tandoor, a kind of terracotta oven in which the dish to be cooked is enclosed in bread dough that is stuck on the wall of it.
In the absence of Tandoor, I offer you a recipe that can be done in the pan or on the barbecue.

Tandoori Chicken

Ingredients (for 4 to 6 people):

  • 1kg of chicken (drumsticks or cutlets)
  • 2 Greek yogurts
  • 2 tbsp of lime juice
  • 2 tbsp of ginger
  • 5 garlic gloves
  • 3 tbsp of garam masala
  • 2 tbsp of chilli powder
  • 2 tbsp of cumin
  • 2 tbsp of coriander in powder
  • 1 tbsp of salt

Preparation :

  1. Mix the yogurt, spices, garlic and lemon
  2. Marinate the chicken for 12/24h (personally I cut my chicken cutlets to the size of a bite)
  3. Heat the frying pan or the barbecue then place the chicken. Once it is golden brown brush the rest of the marinade and turn it over. Repeat the operation until the end of the marinade.

Greek Salad

Ingredients (for 4 to 6 people):

  • 1 large tomato per person
  • Chilli oil or a small hot pepper and 2 or 3 tbsp of olive oil
  • 5 or 6 pitted olives to be cut into slices
  • Cubes of feta at your convenience.

Preparation :

Hey it’s a salad! Cut the tomatoes and mix everything together.

Turmeric Rice

Ingredient (for 4 to 6 people):

2 glasses of rice
1 tbsp turmeric
A few unsalted roasted peanuts
(in my dish I did not put any because one of my guests is allergic)

Preparation :

Cook the rice, coarsely crush the peanuts and mix everything with the turmeric.

Enjoy your lunch !

Take care of yourself and your loved ones! See you soon !

Ethereal Stories: The thimble knight

I visited a theatrical costume museum recently, unfortunately the guide was a pretty boy but bearded, always from behind and we were in a group so I didn’t dare to mention that I was deaf. I didn’t understand anything but I had a good time staring at his posterior!
Seriously, I saw pretty old sewing boxes there. I never had the patience to learn sewing but I am always fascinated by the dexterity and meticulousness of the seamstresses and their attention to the smallest details. In short, these sewing boxes inspired me this little story which I hope you will like.

I

Naïa’s grandmother was a fortune-teller. She braided the threads of lives that she bound for eternity. She embroidered the frayed beards of the fabrics of fallen heroes. She sewed rosebuds on faded bodices and veiled taboos to patch up couples. His shop was famous. All the pains of the heart that the canton counted thronged there. And then, one fine morning, as spring was approaching, she died.

When she died, Naïa inherited her sewing box, a cherry wood box whose wood, polished by years of handling, was as soft as a castle banister. It must be said that the object was transmitted from grandmother to granddaughter for more than two hundred years.
When his mother gave it to him, she also handed him a cloth envelope, closed with an embroidered seal, but she specified:
“First take the time to observe what the box contains, Naïa. Your grandmother, by her gesture, designates you as heiress of the gift, but you must do your scales to begin. For that, you have to familiarize yourself with the tools, the materials, that you appropriate them, that you discipline them and when you can sew with your eyes closed an envelope similar to the one I am giving you, then you will be able to look at what ‘it contains. Not before. »
The tone was solemn, it called for no questions, no answers either.
Naïa took the envelope, put it aside and gently opened the box. This had five compartments: that of wool, cotton, silk and linen threads, that of braid and sequins, that of buttons and staples, that of pieces of fabric and that of pins, needles and hook guarded by a silver thimble.
For several weeks, Naïa scrupulously reviewed the contents of the box. She analyzed it, inventoried it, classified it. Finally, when she knew the box by heart, she got down to sewing.
She began with small jobs, the first of which was the making of a black, opaque headband, to learn how to sew blind. Gradually, she became more complex. She systematically did everything twice, once while watching, once blindfolded and, in case of error, started again and again.
She trained for two months before becoming interested in the envelope. Then, she listened to it patiently and tried to reproduce it by choosing her needle carefully. She copied it, several times, looking, applying herself. Finally, when she had acquired perfect control of her gesture, she adorned herself with her blindfold. She often pricked herself, but insisted. It was the embroidered seal that was the most difficult to achieve, but, at the end of June, the envelope was made, identical to that of her grandmother. So she opened the latter and found an enigmatic letter inside.

II

“Naiah,
The gift does not exist. In reality, none of us have ever actually possessed it. It comes from the thimble.
For him to reveal himself, you will have to choose a knight. To do this, follow these instructions:
First, go to the cemetery. Find a grave that holds a brave man, one of those who died in battle – no matter what war they were fighting. Do not choose a deserter, this one will never help you. Find out about his past. Choose a man who loved, without being afraid and without counting, as one throws oneself into an abyss, one needs a passionate being. Choose well, Naïa, you can’t go back, you can’t start again.
As soon as you have found the grave, dig the earth with your bare hands, collect the one that remains hanging under your fingernails and fill the thimble with it. Press well, nothing should fall out when you flip the dice. Filled flush. Water this soil with orange blossom, every morning, for a week, at a fixed time.
Then, slip the die into the envelope you just made. Seal it up, put it in the sewing box and wait to hear it wiggle. At this time, you will open it. »

Naïa went to the cemetery, she noted on a paper the names of the possible pretenders to the title of knight, she searched, in the archives of the city, their feats of arms, their history. She questioned the families, eliminated little by little those who were not suitable, then made up her mind.
She followed her grandmother’s instructions step by step and in the month of November, on the third precisely, the envelope was shaken. Thus was born the knight Lord Emeric of the thimble.

It was tiny: two legs of midnight blue wool, two arms of braided yellow cotton thread, black sequins instead of feet, others, gold, instead of hands and, for a helmet, a press stud; all emerging from his thimble armour. Barely out of the envelope, he seized the spear hook and proud of his new gleam, in a surprisingly thin voice, spoke to Naïa:

— Good day, lady, what can I do for you?
Naïa was surprised by the tone and the formula which contrasted with the sudden familiarity, but probably that was how a knight spoke. She was not disconcerted:
— Hello, Lord! I will call you Lord, it will be easier. In reality, I don’t know yet what you can do since I don’t yet know what you can do. What can you do ?

Lord then declaimed:
“I am the anti-heartbreaker
The Tailor of Woven Fates
The ardor mechanic
The healer of wounded loves! »

What lyricism, boastfulness! Naïa told herself that she had not chosen the most humble of knights…
“Perfect, Lord, but, in practice, how does it work?”

— I do not know, Naïa. By crowning me a knight of the thimble today, you awaken great powers that I have never before been confronted with. But do not be afraid, my dear, I nobly carry out the tasks, which with honor, they come to entrust to me.
— Okay… let me think.
— My devotion will be as it always was: flawless. No one can claim that in the past I fled before the slightest obstacle or that I refused to face…
— Shut up, Lord, please! I said, “Let me think”!
— Certainly, I consent to it, but when Lady Fortune unites, as here…
— Lord!
— Damn, but if…
— Stop!
— If it suits you.

Naïa had, until then, followed her grandmother’s instructions, but it was clear that she was coming to the end of her roadmap. Sitting in the workshop that had served as a shop, in front of her sewing box, associated with an elf hungry for archaic words of which the tomb had deprived her, Naïa began to doubt the relevance of her choice. She was proud of the hopes placed in her and wanted to prove herself worthy of them, but it had to be admitted that the situation was funny. She was going to have to discipline Lord whose verve exasperated her, but above all find how to use her “powers” to work for the happiness of all.

Naïa thinks that her knight needed a mission that would serve as a trial run to test his abilities. She knew that the Tellier sisters were angry, she told herself that reconciling them could constitute a first challenge whose consequences, in the event of failure, would be limited. However, she preferred to act in the shadows.
So she submitted the idea to Lord and waited for his instructions. This one, perhaps offended by the fact that she had molested him, was, this time, concise: it was necessary, to begin with, that she bring him back a few hairs from each of the Telliers. Naïa therefore waited, hidden in the thickets, in front of their home and as soon as they left, broke in, inquired about their brushes in the bathroom and took her loot there.
As soon as she returned to the workshop, she handed her treasure to Lord. He seized it religiously, settled down cross-legged on the table and began to weave. He metamorphosed thus concentrated. Naïa looked at him, fascinated. A ballet was a ballet, there was so much grace in his gestures. He worked in silence, skilfully mixing brown and blond hair with cotton and silk threads. When he was done, he handed Naïa a one-centimeter square that she detailed on the count. She then discovered, in the intertwining of fibers, a complex pattern of great finesse that looked like a cabalistic sign.
The next day at the market, the Tellier sisters laughed together in front of the fishmonger’s stall.
It was time to reopen the store.

III

Naïa saw a lot of people marching by as soon as trade resumed. The division of labor between her and Lord was simple. She received customers, served them tea, made them sit down and questioned them. Lord, hidden in the sewing box, was listening. Then they debriefed. Lord then drew up the list of what he needed, then, after Naïa had provided him with the necessary material, sat down on the table – like the very first time –, the open box at his side, and began his work. .
On the weekends, when the shop was closed, Lord gave Naïa sewing challenges and Naïa gladly played. Lord was still winning, but Naïa was constantly improving.
Years passed like this, many conflicts were settled, one would have thought that the region was a huge game of go where dark designs were followed by the return of white innocence. The reputation of the shop no longer stopped at the borders. So, six years after Lord and Naïa met, Ludmila entered the shop.
Naïa, barely arrived, had just opened the box to say hello to the knight when this beautiful sixty-something Russian entered. Dumbfounded by her beauty, Naïa did not have the reflex to close the box in time. The damage was done…

This woman was a doll with white hair and high cheekbones, rosy with the coolness of the air. In his intelligent eyes, of a blue “heart of a glacier illuminated by the sun”, there was a strange mixture of firmness and softness. Her clothes of splendid fabrics, from the dress to the coat, were only shimmering.
Naïa, captivated, welcomed him with deference, as one welcomes a princess… And Lord came out of his box declaiming:

— Madam, I have been looking for you for so many years.
That’s when it all went wrong… Ludmila pocketed the thimble with everything it contained and ran away.
Naïa could not catch up with her.

Despite her efforts to continue to treat pain, restore souls, quench sorrows, without Lord, Naïa could not repair everything. But she didn’t lose hope and bought a thimble…maybe the gift would come back.

Naïa died six months ago. Today, I managed to make, with my eyes closed, an envelope identical to the one she gave me. My mother told me her story. Tomorrow, I will go to the cemetery, I will look for a knight and then, we will see if the gift accepts to manifest itself again.

The End